


Life is a Bad Romantic Comedy

by orphan_account



Category: Game of Thrones RPF
Genre: Angst and Romance, Cheating, Complicated Relationships, F/M, Forbidden Love, Love, Unplanned Pregnancy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-21
Updated: 2020-06-21
Packaged: 2021-03-03 23:34:12
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,598
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24833899
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: Emilia always loved romantic comedies, too bad her life had become something of a bad one of late.  Which was too bad, but she of all people knew you could never really plan for anything.
Relationships: Emilia Clarke/Kit Harington
Comments: 13
Kudos: 91





	Life is a Bad Romantic Comedy

**Author's Note:**

> This story was originally posted in February 2020, reposting on behalf of the original author.

There was nothing to worry about. Sometimes her medication had always caused her to be _off_. She ignored it; it would happen eventually. Until she realized she hadn‘t been on any of that medication for years. She wasn‘t necessarily stressed, certainly not like how she had been during those years of filming.

In fact, these last few months had been downright paradise. She worked when she wanted, she saw her friends whenever she wanted, and she no longer had a pesky contract keeping her smile on her face and lies slipping out of her lips about how _amazing _and _exciting _the show would be. It was all over, no more awards shows, no more interviews, and now people were asking her other things and no longer bringing up her beloved Daenerys, metaphorically twisting that prop knife into her heart over and over again each time she had to talk about her.

She stared at her reflection in the bathroom mirror, knowing she had to face facts. She could go to the chemist, purchase a test, but if someone saw ... _shit, fuck, damn, cock it all_. One of her friends would go in a heartbeat, but then that would require her to share her fears with someone else and right now she didn’t even want to whisper the fear of it to Roxy, let alone to Lola or  Gommie .

“Doctor it is,” she muttered, lifting her face back to view the woman in the mirror staring back at her. She was healthy, she was happy, and she felt better than she had in years. She was working on herself. She was finally figuring out who she was and not what a production company wanted her to be.

She picked up her phone, staring at the lock screen. Or she could wait. She could just wait it out. Except she couldn‘t. It had been an entire week. What if she could wait another week? _Just one more week. _Then what? She would still be worried; she would not be able to focus or sleep. Someone might comment on her odd behavior. Her mother would certainly notice something was off with her.

“Fuck,” she cursed, unlocking her phone and dragging her thumb through her contacts, locating the name for her doctor and calling, the device pressed to her ear with one hand as she dragged her other through her hair, sending it standing on end.

It rang a few times and a cheerful receptionist answered. A few minutes later she had an appointment later that week.

She blinked at her reflection again.  “It’s probably nothing,” she reassured her reflection. Roxy wandered into the bathroom and she glanced down at her pup. She knelt, ruffling her dog ’ s curly head, whispering to her and giving her a brief hug, eyes closing.  “It‘s probably nothing.”

***

It was most definitely _not_ nothing.

The doctor gave her the result in a strange half-excited and half-morose manner, trying to feel out whether this was good news or bad news. She went through the litany of things she needed to start doing to maintain a healthy form, before pausing.  “Unless of course”, the young woman said, reaching over for some pamphlets, busying herself with them.  “You want to seek other options ...”

“No,” she interrupted. She accepted some of the pamphlets, staring at the happy faces of women with their glowing bellies. Her fingers dragged over the shiny paper. It was so far from how she was feeling, it almost made her fall on the floor laughing.  “No that will be alright ...I...I am just nervous. ”

“ It is perfectly natural.“

The doctor explained that she needn’t worry about another aneurysm, but of course she could speak with her neurologist about it, encouraging her to make an appointment to assuage any fears she might have. She would, because she was scared. _I ’m always scared._She knew every single time she had a headache that it wasnot another aneurysm, but she still worried. She never again wanted to feel that pain.

She went through the necessary dates, the doctor judging her due date using some sort of spinning cardboard wheel but saying a sonogram would likely provide a more accurate range of both conception and due date. She closed her eyes. She didn’ t need to have an accurate date of conception; she knew exactly when this baby was conceived. She nodded along, fiddling with the edges of the papers in her hand.

“ Do you have any questions for me? I am sure you have many. Lay them on me, no question is too silly. ”

“I ...” She trailed off, because yes, she had dozens of questions. The first one blurted out before she could think of how it sounded. It was silly.  “How did this happen?”

Her doctor chuckled.  “I think you would know but...”

  
“No I mean...I _know_ but...” She frowned.  “I was on the pill.” She frowned again, repeating.  “I was on the pill.”

“Even properly taking the birth control pill it is only effective 98% of the time. It can also be affected by other medications you were taking at the time. Antibiotics, for example.” The doctor cocked her head.  “We highly recommend you use an alternative method of birth control when you are on medication such as that.”

She thought back to her birthday. So much drinking. Tons of drinking. Champagne and vodka and kamikaze shots. Her eyes closed tight. She‘d forgotten. _Fuck_. She‘d forgotten to take her pills that night. She was... _busy_. Then the next morning she’d gotten sick from all the alcohol, discovering that hangovers were the fucking worst at thirty-three. Then she’d been laying around in bed that day... _busy_ again. And again the next day.

A brief memory of him, huskily whispering into her ear, asking if she was sure. There were condoms in her nightstand, but she hadn‘t wanted it. Her moan, nod that _yes, yes she was sure _ and the glorious feeling of him releasing inside of her, over and over again, so many times in those three days they had each other. It had been all heat and passion, not thinking of things like alternative birth control methods when they were in the moment, when they knew they didn’t have long and that every single moment counted. Every moment counted before they returned to the lives they had chosen to led.

Chosen and regretted.

She thanked the doctor, made a follow-up appointment for the following month for her twelve-week checkup and left. She wandered up the street, clutching her coat around her, forgetting for a moment where she was and _who _ she was.

  
It was nearing Christmastime. She had finished the _Last Christmas _ press tour, now with a good reason for her extra fatigue and feeling ill so much throughout it. She just thought it was the travel cross-country in the United States and then back to London. They had turned on the lights at Covent Garden and she had inked a deal to star in a play on the West End.

  
_At the same time I will be in my third trimester._

She groaned, mind swimming with things to worry about, things to prepare for, and so much to consider. _Too_ much to consider. So she did the only thing she could think of.

She called her mum.

***

They attended the Golden Globes together, looking like the perfect couple. Smiling, handholding, arm in arm, and even one shot of his hand on her thigh at the dinner table, her arms wrapped around his. They were perfectly lovely, she thought, staring at the images on her phone, scrolling through Instagram like the masochist she was. Perfectly lovely little aristocratic fucking blue-blooded couple. All titles and royal bloodlines and fancy schools and bad teeth.

And here she was, eating biscuits and wallowing in bed until the middle of the day, staring at all the photos of them together. All the articles casting him aside as the  ‘husband of‘ instead of characterizing her as the  ‘wife of.’ She snorted.  “He has a shitty publicist,” she had muttered, burying her face into the biscuit tin.

Her publicist called to tell there was a blind item they had found on an obscure website, just so she would know. It always amazed her how fast publicists could get the information, as soon as someone posted it. It was likely made up from some fan, but there was often a kernel of truth in those fan guesses and wonderings. She had shut off their contact and he _had_ gone back to his wife. His wife _had_ taken him back again. The difference in their demeanor at the charity event earlier in the month compared to how they behaved at the Globes was proof enough.

She cried in her mother’s  arms, unsure what to do, who to tell and what to say. Like the powerful woman she was, her mother helped her make a plan, step-by-step. They would deal with it day-by-day and worry about things as they occurred. The first thing to do was wait.

“It will do no good to worry about this when the world has no business knowing just yet,” her mother told her, rubbing her back as she cried into her arms on the couch, she’d also spent days curled up on, sometimes crying in her mother‘s arms as a broken-hearted teenager or fearful young adult.

It was early February, she had to go up a jean size already. The doctor told her that she was so petite it was likely she would show rather quickly. _Fan-fucking- tastic._ She fussed with the images in her hands, staring at the black and white squiggles. She was still unsure what to tell _him._

They hadn’t spoken since the middle of December. He tried to call a couple times, but she refused to answer. _She _ even called a few times, wanting to speak, to get dinner or something, but it would be too difficult. They were friends. They had all been friends. They had all been aware of what was happening. How very millennial and modern of them, living a strange sort of threesome life.

Until she realized that she wanted more.

She didn’t want to be the _other woman_ , just there when he was fighting with his wife or when his wife didn’t care what he did with his time. Sometimes she wondered just what kind of relationship those two had, since they were all three good friends, they all knew what was going on, but it didn’t seem to affect the _wife_.

Fuck, they had gone to India for a yoga retreat together and it was an amazing time. Then two weeks after she’d gotten back, she‘d fucked her friend’s husband on every available surface of her house in Venice after the Emmys. Then they’d returned to London where she’d fucked him over every available surface of her house in Islington, not two blocks from the home he shared with _her_.

Then there was her birthday.

He’d appeared, a surprise, and it had been amazing. It was like they were just the only ones. She’d partied hard, drank too much, and had him all to herself for three days. He had to jet off to Spain to film, otherwise they could have had a bit longer. She supposed it hadn’t mattered, it was just enough time to create another _fucking_ human.

She stared at the little black and white squiggles that were her child. She touched her fingertips to the outline of the head and the little feet kicked up as the bean reclined on its back. The heartbeat was strong, steady, and the doctor told her everything was right on schedule.

“When are you going to tell him?” her mother had asked, the previous evening when they had been on the phone for about two hours. It would have probably been easier if she’d just hung up and driven out to  Oxfordshire, spending the night in her mother’s bed with her like she was a young girl who had had a nightmare.

Because when she imagined having a little  sproglet or two, it wasn’t supposed to be a nightmare. Yet that was what this felt like. She didn’t regret it, she was excited even, but this was not how she imagined it being. She had wanted to have planned her baby’s arrival and not been surprised with a missed period and dawning realization that that’s why she felt ill. Perhaps even in a committed, loving relationship.

“I don’t  know if I am going to tell him,”  had been her reply. Her mother had seemed surprised but said nothing. It had been her automatic response, but she didn’t  think she had the heart — or lack of one — to keep this from him.

Except the idea began to appeal to her somewhat.

Her phone buzzed at her hand. She picked it up, staring at a black silhouette of him on a cliff in Spain, sun dropping behind him. She hesitated, before answering.  “Hello?” she whispered.

“ Hey. I’m  outside. ”

She disconnected, not saying another word, before she stood and went to the back door. The hinges squeaked when she pulled it back, revealing him standing on the path that led to the back gate. She gazed beyond him, half-expecting to see his wife. A united front perhaps to find out why she had  been so quiet of late. She dropped her gaze to him again. He looked good.  _So good. _ _So healthy_.

He approached, hands in the pockets of his coat. When he went out and about on the mandated paparazzi calls, he often wore his Thom Browne red and blue and white checked jacket, so it was clear that it was him. When he wanted to hide, it was always something more subdued. A black bomber or brown beaten up leather one from drama school days. He stepped up to her, leaning in and brushing his lips over her brow. He radiated warmth and she fought every instinct she had to wrap her arms around him, draw him into her home and up the stairs to her bedroom.

“You haven’t been taking my calls,” he whispered, his thumb dragging on her cheek. He was concerned. He touched her hairline, hiding the scar from her surgery. He frowned.  “Are you alright?”

He thought it was something with her brain. Thought maybe she was sick again. She shook her head, forcing a smile.  “I’m fine.”

“I  missed you. ”

She sighed, giving in and wrapping her arms around him, squeezing his hard body to her smaller, softer one. Her eyes closed tight around tears. _My best mate_. She wanted nothing more than to kiss him. To love him, as she had for the last ten years.

Instead, she was going to break his heart.

Her hand in his, she tugged him into the heat of the house, closing the door behind them with a squeak.

***

The first photo of her pregnant had definitely caused an uproar.

Naturally, people wanted to know who the father was, as she had not been seen with anyone in years. She had even been quoted before the holidays as saying she wanted to work on herself and was _shock,_ not in a relationship. She worked with her publicist and agent to ensure that it was messaged that this was her business... _affair_ was definitely not a word they would use. It was something she was looking forward to and hoped would generate positive discussion, spinning it into her charity work, as it was a concern for her, keeping her baby healthy and her brain healthy too.

  
It was something she brought up in an interview, at a convention in Canada she has  been invited to speak at in March, sitting in the interview chair holding the microphone while her Victoria Beckham dress did little to hide her growing bump. She smiled, took photos with people, posed with her hand on the little bump, and preened at people’s  comments about how she was glowing and radiant.

Interviews her publicist put her up to said that there were to be no questions about the baby, unless she brought it up, rather carefully. _She was_ _soooo excited , happy surprise, and looking forward to nappies and onesies and blaming my child for all my ails and whatnot for the rest of time._ She said she didn’t  know what she was having, her mother and brother were so excited, and she desperately missed her father and wished he could meet his grandchild.

  
It was there, the questions the reporters wanted so badly to ask, shining in their eyes. In how they moved in their seats and clutched their fake notecards. She dared them  sometimes, twinkling in her eye, a hand on her belly, her empty left hand of course, wanting to see if they took the bait. They wisely kept their mouth closed.

Sometimes a fan would ask her, but she would politely excuse herself, moving away from them, not wanting to be rude but never answering. All her friends knew, and they were smart enough not to ask too.

For months her phone rang every single night, at least five times, and every single time she ignored it. She took a couple of calls from _her_ , tearful and demanding.  “It is his, isn’t it?” she sobbed one time on a voicemail.  “You owe it to me! You could have him all you wanted, I let you! But not a baby! Not when I wanted him to be mine!”

“I am so sorry,” was all she said, before hanging up, and then crying herself to sleep.

There were some  “who’s the daddy” articles that continued to make the rounds, but she had a decent publicist who made sure that those didn’t make it to the bigger magazines or blog sites. Her friends were all supportive, every single one of them were going to make amazing godmothers and godfathers, she knew her baby would be so loved.

She was on a walk with Roxy when she saw him since she had broken things off for good.

He was walking down the street, barely paying her attention, rummaging in his bag for something and  airpods in his ears. Roxy barked, recognizing him and tugging on the leash, wanting to go play. He had glanced up at the noise and stopped hard. She looked around, making sure he wasn ’ t on a pap walk, and when she was satisfied that there was no one with long lenses watching them, she approached.

“ Hey,” she said.

He nodded to her, his eyes widening at the sight of her belly. She was seven-months now. It was quite a large swell on her waist. It tended to be the first thing people took sight of these days.  “Hey.”

“ How are you? ”

“Fine.” He paused. Brows furrowed tight together.  “That’s all you have to say?”

“ It is all I’ m going to say. ”

“ Emilia ...”

“No,” she interrupted, before he could say anything else. She pressed her hand to her side and pulled hard on Roxy’s leash, turning to head back to her house.  “No Kit, you don’t get to say anything.” There was still a wedding ring on his left hand. She felt tears hot on her cheeks, irritated she was standing in the street crying like some cheesy romance movie.  She’d probably watch that movie, which only served to irritate her further.  “Just leave me alone.”

He had the decency not to say anything to her, allowing her to rush back to her house, slam the door and fall into a heap crying, her hand on her belly. She managed to get to her feet and made a bath for herself, to try to unwind, but he also was...well it was _Kit_. No had never been a word in his vocabulary. Got him into trouble often.

That night he was at her back door, banging on it, and shouting for her to answer. She whipped it open, glaring at him and jerking him inside before one of her neighbors saw.  “I deserve to know,” he demanded. He pointed to the kitchen table.  “Four months ago you sat there and told me that it was over. You had _found someone else_ you said. ”

“Yes.” She had, in a way. She had found herself. She crossed her arms over her chest. It only pulled her robe tighter over her belly. She shifted on her feet. Her words biting. He was pissing her off, standing there looking all handsome and healthy and beautiful, living up to a Byronic hero making his stand for the woman he loved.  “You don’t get to worry about my personal life Kit.”

“I do if that is my baby inside you.”

She hesitated, bit her lip hard, trembled.  “Well...you...you don‘t know who else I see.” It was a feeble excuse and sometimes she wondered how she had gotten as far as she had as an actress when she could not even convincingly tell him a lie, her eyes shifting and head dropping.

He snorted, rolling his eyes.  “Don’t try to do that to me.” Then again, she could never really fool him.

“ Oh I see, you can be the only cheater here, that right? ”

It hurt him, she saw the pain in his eyes, before he shuttered it quickly. They never acknowledged exactly what was happening between them for as long as it had. A decade of on and off hookups, with only a brief stretch there for a time where she thought perhaps, they truly were going to become something. Until old insecurities and new fears crept through their idyllic time, ruining it. Until the next time.

He dropped his gaze to the floor, whispering.  “Please tell me. I deserve to know.”

Yes, he did deserve to know. Her mum, her best friends, they all pushed her to tell him. She folded her hands over her belly, her throat constricting.  “And what would you do if I told you it was?” she breathed. Tears trickled down her cheeks and she laughed.  “Darling, this isn’t a movie where we stand in my kitchen and profess our undying love to each other. I will not stand before you and beg you to love me. You will not leave your wife for me; you will not get down on bended knee and beg me to marry you because it will all turn out  alright. We will not ride off into the sunset, with your wife realizing that it was I you truly loved, and she will do the right thing and step aside. That is not real life.”

He moved towards her and she flinched, ducking her head, trying not to look at him as he dragged his hand over her cheek, turning her towards him.  “Em,” he breathed, forehead dropping to hers.  “Please.”

Her bottom lip was chewed almost straight through from nerves.  “I am doing this alone,” she whispered. She reached up to squeeze his hand, lowering it from her face. He slumped against her, defeated. He knew she was not going to back down.  “ This is my baby Kit. You may have had a hand in creating it, but I will not...I will not have my child growing up ashamed of its creation. Going to your house and having your wife glare at it, a living and breathing reminder of your mistake.”

He barked a laugh.  “Mistake? You think we were a mistake?“

“Well you are still married to her, aren’t you?” She knew it was not as simple as that. Love was messy, complicated, and contrary to what the movies they created said, you could love two people at the same time. She shook her head, whispering to him.  “Please...just go. I made it easier for you by taking myself out. I am no longer part of the equation. This is between you two. If you truly love her, then love her. Do not let me stand in the way.”

“ Em . ”

She shook her head again, removing herself from him, dropping the curtain between them. Her stomach clenched, the baby inside of her moving around. She was half-tempted to have him feel, but that would imply something that could never be, so she wrapped her arms around herself, back to him, and eyes clenched shut. He could let himself out.

They were done.

***

On the opening night of her play, she received a standing ovation, a gorgeous bouquet of roses from the director at curtain call, and in her dressing room a single peony with a card that simply said _I always believed in you. -K_

  
The doctor said she could work up until her due date if she felt up to it. She ’ d worked with the production company, with her understudy, and they agreed only to scale back her performances towards the end of the run. She wanted this more than anything, a chance to do stage acting, to make the next step in her progression as an actress. She thought it important to even do so as she was pregnant, to show the world that mothers could do it all if they felt like it, fuck that whole women _can’t_ _have a career and children _narrative.

She did interviews, morning shows and some evening talk shows, sitting in her chair and a hand on her belly, pleased that not all the questions surrounded her maternal state. Thankfully no one questioned the child‘s  father, it was almost a non-issue now.

A couple of times out and about with her mum or with friends she got snapped by fans, posted on Instagram or Twitter, seeing her exiting Pottery Barn Kids or Pea and a Pod. She fought every instinct she had and chose not to buy an entire Harry Potter-themed set of nursery linens and blanket, lest someone try to make a connection.

Or maybe it was just all in her head.

She went online and bought it instead.

About a week before her due date, she was having lunch with her mum, enjoying a rather pleasant summer afternoon where she actually did not feel like a beached whale, often bowled over by the size of her belly and the overwhelming heat and humidity blanketing London that month. She actually felt rather cute, wearing a flowing flowery dress and espadrilles and her hair tugged back in a loose ponytail.

The belly popped straight out, leading the way, her  sproglet dancing away inside of her as she munched on a carrot ribbon from her salad.  “We should go get ice cream after this,” she said. It was not so much a suggestion as an indication of what was to come. Ice cream had been her sweet of choice during the pregnancy, the baby preferring fudge ripple.

Jenny had been looking at her phone and said nothing, before she quietly turned it, pushing it towards her without a word.

One look at the headline, from one of the American entertainment sites, had her appetite disappearing, her craving for ice cream disappearing, as the baby stilled its movements inside of her, likely knowing what was happening.

**_ Game Over! Game of Thrones Co-Stars Kit Harington and Rose Leslie Separate _ **

She scanned the article. According to well-placed sources...blah blah blah. She found the line she needed to see. _ Harington’s representative, in response to questions, said the couple resolves to separate  ‘amicably‘ and  ‘will always remain dear friends.’ _She snorted, thumb moving up, her heart stopping.

_ A source close to Leslie said that she  ‘could no longer stay married to a man who could not stay married to his vows.’ This is not the first time Harington has been accused of cheating. Recent rumors swirled around Harington and former co-star Emilia Clarke, including the accusation that Harington is the father of Clarke’s baby. The actress quietly stepped out pregnant earlier this year and has been mum on the baby’s father. _

  
She set the phone down, reaching for her fork and stabbed a piece of lettuce.  “Fuck it, m” she muttered. She dropped the fork, pushing her plate away and her hands folding over her  belly. Tears rose behind her eyelids. Damnit. She blamed the baby hormones. She was always a mess.  “Mum I want to go home.”

“ Of course darling. ”

She went home and crawled onto the couch, Roxy curled against her, and her hand on her belly, staring at the television, watching reruns of some silly show she ’ d found on Bravo, watching it like you might a train wreck.

_What did this mean?_

She winced, a pain shooting up her spine. She reached behind her and adjusted her hot water bottle. Back pain had been a steady part of her life the past couple months. The annoyances of growing another human inside of her body, she supposed. She tried to settle back, but couldn ’ t, eyes closing tight around another shot of pain.

“Mum!” she called. She nudged Roxy, the dog barking, nosing at her belly. She winced, a spasm in her side rippling over the taut skin of her belly. She cried out, the pain intensifying in her back.  “Oh fuck!”

Roxy pushed her wet nose to the belly. She took a few breaths, remembering what she’d learned in her breathing classes. She swung her legs over the side of the couch, a hand on either side of the basketball currently positioned on her waist. She stared at the massive bump, eyebrows lifting.  “You better be serious about this now. I’ll not have this be a fake.”

In response, another spasm coursed through her lower back. She nodded quickly.  “Alright then.” Her heart thudding, she fought to her feet, turning slowly as her mother appeared in the doorway, worried. She clutched her belly, swallowing hard, equal parts terrified and excited.  “I think...I think I might be in labor. ”

***

The little girl slept peacefully, ensconced in a white onesie from the hospital, a little hat tugged over her soft dark hair, but a curl escaping over her smooth forehead. The hat was red and gold striped, with a little snitch, wand, and glasses embroidered on it. She was so perfect. Pink and soft. Her eyes were a peculiar blue, mottled with some green and brown.

They would change to brown, she suspected, just like him.

She knew she should be sleeping, but she found herself lying on her side, a cold pack pressed to her lower abdomen against the pain she still had from the birth two days before. She could not stop looking at her daughter. The intense love she felt was unlike anything she had ever experienced.

All her friends with children told her it would be different. There was nothing they could say to explain how she would feel. It affected everyone differently. She had been scared she  might not feel a connection, too worried that her child would represent the pain and heartbreak of their conception and overall existence.

Except one look at the screaming infant she ’ d pushed from her body and she had felt pure love. A surge of protection that should anything happen to her daughter she would murder anyone who dared to harm her. She had sobbed for God knew how long, the nurse placing her in her arms, on her bare chest, sealing the bond immediately after birth between mother and child.

Her mother and brother would stay with her, help her get settled. There was Lola and some of her other friends. She knew many more wanted to come by, get their first look at Baby Girl Clarke, but her mother had been a Cerberus at the gates, turning away people saying that the last thing a new mother wanted was for guests to drop in nonstop. Give her a few days.

She was blissfully tired. She looked horrific. Hadn ’ t washed her hair in two days, there was vomit on the shoulder of her shirt and her breasts felt like concrete, needing to be milked like a fucking cow. Her muscles ached and going to the bathroom was a painful chore she would never complain about again. Yet she would never trade it for anything, if it meant she could lay there and stare at her precious daughter.

Her fingers darted out to touch her cheek, rosy and soft as a flower petal.  “I love you,” she whispered, dragging her finger to the darling girl’s plump pink lips. Her tiny hands encased in mittens that matched her hat wiggled a bit from the touch. She smiled, loopy, drunk on lack of sleep and affection for this tiny creature she had only known all of two days.

There was a light knock on the door. She glanced up.  “Yes?”

It pushed open, her brother leaning on it.  “You have a visitor.”

“Who?” She pushed up onto her elbow, glancing at her dirty t-shirt and joggers. She sighed.  “I am not in any position to receive.”

“ Um, you might want to see him. ”

_Oh fuck._ She knew she didn’t need to ask who it was. She closed her eyes, dropping her head to the pillow.  “Fine.”

The door closed. A moment later it opened again and there he was. He took one look at her and then at the bassinet. He covered his mouth with his hand, scrubbing at his face.  “Oh...wow.”

She sat up, leaning into the bassinet, cradling the warm bundle. She stood, waiting for him to come to her. He did, dropping a bag he was holding on her dresser. He waited for permission and she nodded in assent, gently passing her over, murmuring support.  “Like that,” she breathed, moving his arms properly. As if she were an expert, she had only  learned how to properly hold a newborn the other day.  “Support her head...it is a bit top-heavy. ”

He smiled, almost laughed, but caught himself, awkwardly holding the baby. She kept her hands on his forearm, gazing at his face as he gazed at their daughter.  “She’s beautiful,” he whispered. He smiled, giddy.  “She’s so...she’s heavier than I thought she’d be...a baby. ”

“Yeah, she is a little chunk.” She lightly squeezed his forearm again. A glance at his left hand showed it was empty. She chewed her bottom lip again.  “So you...you came.”

“ I did ...I  had something ... there. ”

She left him, standing there with the baby, and took careful steps to the dresser, picking up the bag. She reached in and pulled out a small black jewelry box. Her eyes closed.  “Kit...”

“Christ  Em, no...it’s not...just open it.” It was presumptuous of her to think it was anything else, so she flicked it open and stared at the little silver bangle. She picked it up, running her thumb over the worn clasp, turning and silently questioning. It looked like a family heirloom. He turned, carefully sitting on the edge of the bed, shoulders relaxing the longer he held the baby.  “It’s been in my family for generations. For christenings.”

She smiled, going to sit beside him, still holding the bangle. It was so tiny.  “It’s gorgeous.”

“ Your mum called me. Please don’ t be mad at her. ”

It answered the question she’d had but hadn’t asked. She wouldn’t be mad at her. It was for the right reasons. She leaned against him, her head dropping to his shoulder and her hand wrapping around to rest on his opposite one. They stared at the sleeping babe in his arms. She reached to touch her daughter’s hand, covered in the mitten to keep from scratching herself.  “I do not know where to go from here,” she admitted.

“Me either.” He swallowed, throat constricting.  “I filed...I...I could not keep hurting her.”

“ Kit we don’ t need to talk about that now. ”

“But I have to.” He took another deep breath. He closed his eyes tight.  “It was over for a while...two friends just...married instead.” He looked at the baby, whispering.  “I would never have forgiven myself if I ran away from this...for...for something that used to be good.” He turned to her, his hand reaching over, clutching hers, whispering.  “I’m so sorry...I...I should never have dragged this on.”

Love was complicated, it was the only reason why she leaned in and kissed him, a gentle touch of their lips. She dropped her head to the crook of his neck, nodding.  “Please just...tell me you did not do it for me. For us.”

“ I didn ’ t. I wasn’ t happy. Not like before. ”

She nodded.  “I understand.”

“ I want to be there. For her. For you. As much or as little as you will let me. Please. ”

She nodded; eyes still closed. They would figure it out. Together.

***

The first Instagram post of her daughter was merely a snap of a set of tiny feet in pink booties, Roxy sniffing over the basket. A series of hashtags about it being the love of her life, Roxy being jealous, and motherhood being the only role for her from there on out completed the look.

The second Instagram post was more strategic, her daughter shielded in a Harry Potter blanket with a strong male arm wrapped around her. Daddy’ s girl was the primary focus on it. It had been at the suggestion of her publicist, rather than making a formal announcement of anything. She honestly thought he needed to fire his, which he ultimately did, after it became clear that sharing a publicist with his soon-to-be ex-wife was not the smartest thing.

They went out step-by-step. Pap walks were not in her repertoire, nor her publicist’s, so of course there were some of his ex out and about with her sister, looking miserable and sad, usually accompanied with a surge of stories about how she was  ‘coping’ and  ‘enduring betrayal.’ For each one of those stories, she would be seen happy and cheerful at various events, going to a show or a premiere for a friend.

Their relationship went step-by-step as well. He stayed the night most of the time, curled up behind her on the bed as they doted on their growing baby. Chaste kisses in the morning when he left to go home. Longer kisses as they fell back in love again, stopping only at the cry of a newborn.

She went to the premiere of  _The Eternals,_ arriving separately, bypassing the carpet, but sitting beside him in the theater, and spotted at afterparties, ostensibly a _Game of Thrones_ reunion, posing between him and Richard in most of the photos, but their publicists making sure that there were snaps of them leaving together hand-in-hand in the main gossip headlines. Just to test the waters. To her shock, the feedback had been positive. More  “About time!” than  “Homewrecker!” as she had feared.

It was difficult. She tried not to let the public opinion affect them, but it was a sad reality of their lives. It was a reality that their daughter would end up facing, by virtue of her parents’ jobs. She kept him at a distance as best as she could, processing through her feelings. She did not want to involve lawyers, so they agreed on a tentative schedule\-- he could come over whenever he wanted and spend as much time as he wanted, so long as he cleared it first with her. He could take the baby to visit with his parents or his brother, but again, the baby always returned to her. It was not so much custody as it was, he was sort of living with them, just platonically.

Until one day, when he was getting ready to leave, to go back to his rented flat since he’d let _her_ have everything in the divorce, even the home in Suffolk that he adored.  “I’ve got some things to do, but I’ll be by tomorrow evening, yeah? I’d like to give her, her bath before bedtime.”

  
“Okay.” She leaned on the door; arms crossed. Her brow furrowed.  “Hey Kit.”

“Yeah?” He turned, standing on the stoop, adjusting the collar of his jacket. His tight black shirt held a stain from baby drool on the front, she realized. There was mashed banana in his hair too. He had dark circles under his eyes, he hadn’t slept in a couple days, as they had been dealing with an ear infection that would not go away, and he probably was going to go straight home and pass out.

  
Except she thought he looked more handsome than he had the first night she’d met him, in that hotel bar in Belfast. With his unruly curls and shy smile. _He was so awkward then_. He smiled up at her then. She returned it. _It was still shy._

She dropped off the step, walking over and taking his hands, drawing her towards him.  “Stay the night.”

“ You sure? ”

Her hand wrapped around the back of his neck, drawing him in for a kiss. She nodded.  “I’m sure.”

***

“Just sit there,” she told him, as she posed him for the picture. She chuckled when their now year-old tried to pull at his hair. They were celebrating Isobel’s birthday with family a bit early, since filming obligations would tear her away to Spain. They were all going together; they had decided that no filming would be done at the same time, tearing them apart. They would always be a family.

He scowled, annoyed at the pointed party hat on his head, although she knew he was pleased that it was Harry Potter themed. Golden snitches covered his hat, along with sparkles and  ‘Expecto Birthday!’ spelled out on it. Their daughter had one on it with little cartoon Harry and Ron and Hermione all over it. She made sure that her face was kept from the camera, just her flyaway dark curls as she tapped the replica Elder Wand on his nose, laughing before he knew what she was doing. She took the picture, grinning at her phone.  “Perfect!”

  
She climbed up beside him on the couch, nuzzling her daughter who giggled, tapping her with the wand. She posted the photo, studying the white gold band on his left hand, which was wrapped around Isobel’s  back, almost hidden by the sparkling black tutu she was wearing with her Gryffindor t-shirt and black leggings.

“ _Getting into the birthday spirit a few days early! Someone is wishing for more nappies (or is that Mummy?) ” _ he read from the photo. He chuckled.  “And a billion hashtags I can barely read.”

“They’re easy enough.” She read aloud.  “ _Expecto Birthday, Daddy’s Little Gryffindor,  Too early to introduce her to dragons or is it?” _ Plus a few emoticons she tagged, the thankful hands one, a heart, and the thinking one. She clicked her phone off, tossing it onto the coffee table, leaning in and kissing him lightly.

  
He tugged off the birthday hats, setting them on the table, passing over the baby who cooed, wanting cuddles. He stretched out beside her, taking her hand into his, rubbing his thumb over the antique diamond engagement ring she wore with her white-gold wedding band. It wasn ’ t the flashiest of rings, but it was hers, and she loved it.

She turned her daughter around in her arms, lightly stroking at the soft skin of her hands as she yawned, falling to sleep.  “Kitten?” she murmured.

He was almost asleep next to her, eyes closed and a hand on his chest.  “Yes  Em?”

  
“If I hadn’t gotten pregnant...do you think we’d be here?” She wasn’t sure what prompted her to ask. Perhaps it was the nostalgia she was feeling, looking back on the last year, where her life had changed so dramatically. It could be the insecurities she still felt, that he might get up and leave. The fear in her heart that she was not good enough or pretty enough or whatever enough.

He stared at her, his hand finding hers, fingers threading together.  “I don’t know,” he admitted, truthfully. She appreciated that honestly. He sighed.  “I think so...I already had the papers drawn up before...before I found out.”

She didn’t know that. Her heart skipped a few beats.  “Oh?”

“Yeah.” He squeezed her hand tight.  “I don’t know what took me so long, but it was always you  Em. Since that moment I saw you. In a hotel bar in Belfast.” She smiled, accepting the  kiss he dropped to her, before he took their daughter into his arms, the baby squealing as he lifted her into the air, laughing.  “But I hate to break it to you, you see, I’m in love with another woman.”

She grinned.  “Oh?”

“ Yes, she has chubby cheeks and her favorite food is bananas and she’ s about eight kilos and will be all of one year old in a few days. ”

Their daughter laughed, hands patting his face.  “Dada!”

“Well,” she said, kissing him again, chuckling.  “I guess I don’t mind sharing.” She stretched out across his chest, tickling Isobel’s belly, laughing in the chortles as they cuddled together, finally not caring about anything else but each other.


End file.
